Theory of Relativity
by columbiachica
Summary: How true the theory of relativity rings in this spy world. Sark, Sydney, and a dangerous secret.


****

Theory of Relativity  
**Author:** Kat  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Setting:** Through "Succession"; after that, AU  
**Pairing:** Sark/Sydney  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Alias_ or anything affiliated with it; nor do I have rights to _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. Shockingly, I also did not write the special theory of relativity.  
**Author's Note:** This is my first _Alias_ fic, so chances are, it's terrible. I appreciate feedback either way, though.  
  
  
  
It was a burning sensation in her stomach and Sydney hated herself for it. Every time Lauren Reed came into view, Sydney couldn't stop the lemon-juice bitter sting in her belly, the way her body instantly tensed for a fight. It took her concentration away from everything else, focused, if just for a second, on the blonde hair, the black suit - the kisses.But invariably, Sydney found her way back to work, to the endless monotonous drone of the everyday.  
  
She still looked out of the corner of her eye.  
  
It was all she could do.  
  
At night the images played back; in the dark, with nothingness everywhere, all Sydney saw was the connection: the brief moment when Lauren's lips touched Vaughn's cheek, the covert brush of his hand against her thigh.  
  
She still lay alone.  
  
It was always so.  
  
One time, out of politeness, with a steely look in her eye that made Sydney wary, Lauren invited her to dinner - to the Vaughns' house, for dinner. In the doorjamb, Sydney saw Vaughn framed by uncertainty. "No, thanks," she'd told Lauren, her brightest smile pasted on.  
  
She still ate takeout.  
  
It was almost all she ate anymore.  
  
After a mission, once, Sydney and Vaughn had stood close, intimate, in the parking garage. It was almost as if she could fool herself into believing they were still SydandVaughn, about to share a kiss and head home, tangle together, sweat and slide and sigh into the night. Of course, it wasn't so; the moment diffused, so infinitesimal that the CIA camera didn't catch it. The aftertaste lingered on Sydney's skin for days.  
  
She still wore perfume, though.  
  
It wasn't the same scent.  
  
They had fought a couple of times, stupid spats about nothing and everything. Subtext. Vaughn told her that he was married, firmly, in the onyx-dark corner of a jet one time. It wasn't going to change, he told her, eyes strained with regret and conflict. She swallowed, wanting to tell him that she hadn't asked him to change it, but she knew better than to be petty. Instead, she met his eyes unwaveringly and told him that she wasn't expecting it to. The two of them loitered in the corner, their lips hinting toward each other, but Sydney left.  
  
She still went home, solitary.  
  
It was familiar.  
  
The tension's meniscus fomented too high, just once. In Paris, in the romantic setting she should be immune to now, the emotions came hurtling at them both, catching them off guard. Afterward, Sydney felt dirty. For comfort, she told herself it was just a kiss - just lips on lips. It didn't help. Neither did showering. There was a tattoo on her, she knew, somewhere Lauren could see it. She'd know. Vaughn didn't talk to her much anymore after that.  
  
-  
  
When they were assigned to the mission together, neither showed any reaction, which should have set warning bells clanging. Dixon glanced around the table, looking for any dissenters; Sydney and Vaughn pointedly looked away from one another. Just a slight frown on Dixon's lips, and they were free to go. Vaughn went to Lauren. Sydney went to Jack.  
  
"If you don't want to go on this op with Vaughn, you can request another agent," Jack said, the first words out of his mouth.  
  
"I know, Dad. I'm fine." And she said it with a smile, using her dimples.   
  
Jack continued staring. Nothing was fooling him.  
  
"Sydney, I know better. You and Vaughn have... certain issues that could be detrimental to this mission."  
  
"We're professionals."  
  
"Sometimes that isn't enough," Jack said, looking her directly in the eyes.   
"You could ask for Weiss."  
  
Biting her lip, Sydney looked over to the unofficial Married Corner, where Lauren and Vaughn were whispering conspiratorially. "No, really, Dad. Vaughn's the best choice for this mission."  
  
He wanted to push it farther, she knew, but her eyes pleaded with him. _I'm fine, Daddy. I can handle this._ With a grave look, Jack said, "I think that Lauren Reed will be the NSC's chosen delegate to accompany you on this mission."  
  
Something - guilt? - dropped from Sydney's throat to her heart to her stomach to her feet. She couldn't move from the spot. "Dixon didn't say anything about that."  
  
"Lindsey hasn't made his decision yet."  
  
"Then why do you think Lauren will be his choice?"  
  
"Her father is Senator Reed. Her husband is going on the mission. Undoubtedly, she will want to accompany him. Lindsey has almost no choice but to acquiesce to her wishes."  
  
"She didn't go on the Paris mission," Sydney pointed out, her stomach coated with molasses deceit.  
  
"It wasn't an operation the NSC was interested in."  
  
Sydney let all the implications permeate her brain. Lauren, Vaughn, and her, stranded in Barcelona. Two days of endless lies and tiring civility."If I request Weiss, do you think Lindsey will send a different officer?"  
  
"There's no guarantee. But there's a better chance."  
  
Sydney nodded. "I think I'm going to talk to him."  
  
Without a word, Jack touched Sydney's arm. The touch was fast, affectionate, steadying. A smile at her father, and Sydney walked into Dixon's office.  
  
"Sydney," he said pleasantly.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Come on in."  
  
Shutting the door behind her, Sydney sat in a chair across from Dixon's desk. How she missed their partnership, their easy camaraderie. Settling her hands in her lap, Sydney sat straight and tried to sound professional.   
  
"I would like to request Weiss for the Barcelona op."  
  
"Any reason?" Dixon asked her, his eyes sympathetic.  
  
A rocky lump in her esophagus. She cleared her throat futilely. "I feel that Agent Weiss and I are more compatible."  
  
He folded his hands on his desk and leaned toward her. "Sydney, I know what this is about. And I wish that I could comply with your request. But Vaughn is just better suited to this mission than Weiss."  
  
"I understand." Mildly humiliated, Sydney rose and smiled. "Thank you."  
  
"Sydney. I know that your father must have told you that the NSC is considering sending Lauren Reed."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'll see what I can do."  
  
Unbidden tears of relief sprang to her eyes. Uncomfortable at her gratitude, Dixon looked down at a miscellaneous file folder spread open on his desk. "Thank you," she whispered, wishing her tear ducts hadn't suddenly jerked to life.  
  
"Of course."  
  
That was dismissal. Sydney left his office, secured the door behind her.   
  
At his desk, Vaughn looked up at her. He seemed like he knew just what she'd done, his eyes more penetrating than she recalled. _I'm sorry_, she wanted to say.  
  
So complex, so simple, the words raveled in her throat and meekly ebbed away.  
  
-  
  
Lindsey sent Lauren Reed as the NSC officer. Dixon didn't look at her when he announced the fact, and Sydney didn't look at anyone.  
  
And now she was standing with Vaughn and Lauren in the rotunda, receiving last-minute instructions from Dixon. On the surface, it was a simple mission. Sneak into a known Covenant office, pilfer what was believed to be an operations manual, return home. Sydney and Vaughn would masquerade as guests at a gala thrown by Roberto Felligni (an alias, Sydney thought), slip away, retrieve the manual, and go back home.   
  
But there was subtext.  
  
The three of them would arrive at a fairly nondescript hotel late that night. Though he, of course, didn't say it, Sydney mentally added that she would sleep alone in a depressing room, far from home, while Lauren and Vaughn had the comfort of each other.  
  
Oh, yes. There was subtext.  
  
For the most part, Sydney read on the flight. It amused her, saddened her, to read the books her mother used to teach. On the page, Irina's dark eyes glittered in front of her, alternately full of vivacity and malice. She wondered if Vaughn saw them.  
  
_You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft_, Huck told her. My kingdom for a raft, Sydney thought. An airplane didn't provide the same adventurous haven.  
  
"_Huckleberry Finn_?" Lauren asked. Looking up, Sydney found that Vaughn's seat was unoccupied.  
  
"Yes," Sydney agreed, somewhat defensively.  
  
"I believe I read that in my junior year of academy. My professor told us that it was an irreplaceable piece of Americana."  
  
"It is."  
  
"I never understood the beauty, I guess," Lauren said. "The timeline, the episodic nature. None of it appealed to me."  
  
"It's the statement that matters," Sydney told her.  
  
"Yes, I suppose it is." Lauren smiled at her, conciliatory, and Sydney returned it half-heartedly. First she took Vaughn and now she insulted _Huckleberry Finn_. Clearly, the woman was out to get her.  
  
"If it's Americana you're looking for, maybe you'd like Willa Cather more," Sydney suggested despite herself.  
  
"Willa Cather," Lauren repeated. "I'll give it a try."  
  
Vaughn emerged from the restroom and Sydney ducked her head into her book. The two of them murmured together, a babbling brook to the roaring Mississippi of Huck's tale. She wanted earplugs.  
  
Just a moment later, Vaughn's voice cut in. "Sydney, do you have the specs on the house over there?"  
  
They were lying next to her in the seat. Wordlessly, she handed them over, and wistful electricity bit their fingers when they touched. Sydney returned to Huck, to his morality, as she battled with her own.  
  
Irina's face still swam up through the words, like an optical illusion winking up from the newspaper. When Sydney was five, Irina had started reading _Huckleberry Finn_ to her, one chapter a night.  
  
"Society isn't always right, Sydney," her mother had told her seriously. "You can't rely on it."  
  
At five, the words hadn't meant... well, anything. But now, as she looked to Lauren and Vaughn unwillingly, Sydney wondered exactly what her mother was telling her. How she could apply the words. Wasn't that all keeping her and Vaughn apart, a society that didn't believe in adultery?  
  
_"All right then, I'll go to hell"_-  
  
Did Huck understand? Because some mornings when she woke up and the wood floor was cold against her bare feet and she drank yesterday's coffee heated up in the microwave, she swore to a God she didn't believe in that she'd go to hell, just to wake up next to someone warm.  
  
Her sixth sense prickled and Sydney glanced over the edge of her book to find Lauren staring deeply at her. Vaughn was buried in specs, but Lauren was fixated on her, her eyes a color that made Sydney wish for Huck's raft again. It didn't take but a moment for Lauren to realize her gaffe and look away, but an entirely unpleasant shiver rippled through Sydney, leaving her skin über-aware of everything. Vent. Strip of warm sunlight. Brush of her cotton shirt.  
  
Attuned to the sudden discord in the cabin, Vaughn lifted his eyes from the page and the three of them exchanged peculiar looks. In retrospect, Sydney should have gleaned an essential bit of knowledge from this, but all she could see was Lauren's ice-steamed eyes.  
  
"Did I miss something?" Sydney asked, driving the heavy moment away.  
  
"No, no. I just wanted to look at it." _So I wouldn't have to look at you_, Vaughn didn't say.  
  
"Well, tell me if you run across something."  
  
"I will."  
  
Subtext.  
  
-  
  
Barcelona was a dry evening cool when they landed and drove to their hotel. It was situated not too far from Gaudi's masterful catherdral in construction. An urge, coming from somewhere naïve inside of her, wanted to see the church, despite the fact that it was ten at night. Lauren and Vaughn had vanished into their room magician-quick immediately after arriving, and Sydney wondered if she should tell them where she was going. Instead she sneaked away - slipped into more touristy clothes and a lightweight sweater and trekked the several blocks. _La Sagrada Familia_, Sydney thought, standing in front of the awesome structure with her arms wrapped around herself.  
  
She still felt the chill.  
  
As a child, she'd always seen her mother in front of places like this. Her curious accent, her mystery, drove Sydney wild with delight as a child, conjuring up all the places her mother might have been, waltzing with the dusk in swirling dresses. Now she understood that Irina didn't dawdle on this sort of thing, these magnificent buildings designed for a worship she never needed.  
  
"It's a shock to find you here."  
  
His words stole her breath, his whipped cream accent slithering through her veins.  
  
"Sark." She did her best to sound impassive, but she could hear the warble in her voice and she knew that Sark could as well.  
  
"Agent Bristow," he said pleasantly, as though they were old friends, meeting for the first time in a while. Maybe he'd ask her to dinner and they would reminisce and drink wine and kiss affectionately at the end of the night.  
  
She desperately wanted to ask him what he was doing here, but that would alert him to the fact that she hadn't anticipated him. So she clamped her mouth shut and studied his lean frame in his black suit.  
  
"Lovely, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Shame he never saw it finished."  
  
Sydney narrowed her eyes. _Cut the small talk. _  
  
"You didn't think you'd run into me here." Without her making so much as a twitch, Sark noted her agreement. "The CIA really should cover its tracks more thoroughly."  
  
"I'll tell the director," Sydney replied drolly.  
  
His lips curved in a smirk and she couldn't look away.  
  
"I assume you're here for the manual in Felligni's office."  
  
What could she say? _We're just on a sightseeing mission_? And she just gazed at his lips, wondering when she'd have the will to force her eyes back to the cathedral.  
  
"I'm here for it as well. Seems as though the Covenant wants it back."  
  
Silently, she challenged him. Start your engines.  
  
But Sark was looking at her so strangely that Sydney wanted to run into the church and claim sanctuary. In the half vanilla light, his eyes seemed so, so blue. He was looking at her with a mixture of pity, curiosity, and disbelief, or so it seemed.   
  
It lasted for a second and then he gazed back at the church, usual sangfroid back in place. "Lauren Reed came with you," he said, not a question.  
  
"Yes," Sydney admitted, craving more. Wondering. Did Sark know something? Certainly, he always seemed to know something she didn't. But did he really?  
  
A flash of blue in her direction, swift and striking as lightning. "Were she and Agent Vaughn married in a church?" he questioned, skewing away from where Sydney wanted to go. But he had the wheel.  
  
"I don't know," she muttered.  
  
"The churches are hypocritical. They promise sanctuary. Eternity. But often it ends violently."  
  
Automatically, her eyes flew to his suit jacket. He was armed. She wasn't. How idiotic was she - leaving her room without any weapon but her less-than-keen instincts and a mean spin kick. The way he was looking at her - sharply - Sydney knew she was supposed to infer something from this conversation, something deeper.  
  
"Think, Sydney."  
  
_Sydney_, she noted dimly. For a couple of seconds the two of them were just two breezes meeting in the night and they absorbed the other.   
  
Peaceful.  
  
Before she could ask him what they hell he was talking about, he had disappeared, a summer shower. No matter how carefully she surveyed the street, she couldn't find him.  
  
_They promise sanctuary. Eternity. But often it ends violently. Think, Sydney._ She stepped inside the ponderously quiet church doing just such. Twain's satire haunted her, mingling with Sark's words, which were interspersed with Irina's. Who was right? And more importantly, how did she apply it to herself, to Lauren, to Vaughn?  
  
Candles flickered at the front of the church, and Sydney remembered being six, begging her father to take her to a church. Somehow, she had become convinced that if she prayed enough, her mother would magically reappear. For weeks, she had hounded her father, thinking of glowing flames and preachers and hymns and everything that looked so beautiful on television.  
  
"Sydney," her father had said, wiped out, stern, "there is no God. Your mother is not coming back."  
  
She hadn't been inside a church since. It was foreign. It was like dying and coming back to life. Not necessarily redemption, but an awakening.  
  
_But I reckon I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest...I been there before._  
  
How wise Huck seemed.  
  
In the front row, Sydney dropped to her knees. She prayed. To what, she wasn't sure, but she prayed, shaking and spent.  
  
Ten minutes later, she was done. In the eerily echoing church, she walked down the aisle, out the door, into the bustling late-night crowd. Aimlessly, she wandered Barcelona's streets, _Las Ramblas_, fully aware that she was gun-less and that Lauren and Vaughn might find her gone and worry.  
  
A shorn blonde head disappeared into a lavish hotel and Sydney instinctively followed him. Oddly, he took the stairs. Sydney wondered fleetingly if he shared her claustrophobic fear of elevators. No escape in those. And Sark was dedicated to escape if nothing else.She kept her distance, moving as silently as possible, knowing the stairwell, like the church, reverberated. He exited on the tenth floor, and Sydney hesitated for valuable seconds before doing so as well. This was insanity, but she needed to know what he knew. Never mind that she'd always had a whisper crush on him.  
  
When she poked her head around the door, he was disappearing into number 1029, dipping into its confines like oil. A heavy chord resounded in Sydney's body, fracturing her inner glass. It would break entirely if she pursued this, she knew. But - what was better? Holding herself up, unfeeling, every heartbeat a question? Or being destroyed, passionate, knowing?  
  
She opted for the latter and strode down the hall. The door was open when she arrived, Sark smirking on the other side. He'd shed his jacket and rolled up his expensive shirt. The maize hair on his arms hypnotized her.  
  
"I was wondering if you were going to come," Sark greeted her.  
  
"I did," she said, unnecessarily.  
  
Raising his eyebrows, he let her in, let her skim shyly across his body, and closed the door behind her.  
  
"Would you like a drink?" At her silence, he said, "A red wine," and poured a glass for her, which she drank gracelessly in two gulps.  
  
"What did you mean? By the church?"  
  
"Religion is misleading. It makes people think they have bonds that, in reality, are lies."  
  
_Thanks for clearing that up_, Sydney thought wryly.  
  
"Are you saying that Lauren and... and Vaughn's marriage...?"Another one of those unsettling looks. She realized that it reminded her of Irina. Distantly, she wondered if Sark had ever read _Huckleberry Finn_.  
  
"You're not the only person who hates the Covenant, Sydney."  
  
Their eyes met and then they were kissing. To Sydney, there was no in between, no approach, so soft exchange of caresses before they fell together, his honey liquid kiss crushing her lips, shattering her glass.  
  
It lasted forever, taut and glistening. Her hands smoothed over his short hair, reveling in the tactile feel of his skull under her hands, of his hips against hers.  
  
"How much do you hate them?" she asked when they broke apart, breathless.  
  
In lieu of a reply, Sark kissed her again, and Sydney's hand scrambled against the buttons her his shirt, desperate to feel skin other than her own when she mechanically bathed in the shower. Sark's was warm and dimpled with scars and Sydney couldn't get enough. He was lifting her shirt off too, unclasping her bra, and she almost buckled at the sensation of the vast planes of skin pressed together.  
  
Then his finger grazed her breast and Sydney knew it was her breaking point. It had been so, so long since she could remember doing this with someone. There was no return now. From the nether regions of her over-stimulated mind, Vaughn's eyes peeked out at her, but she threw him in a darker corner with Lauren and fumbled with Sark's overly complicated belt.  
  
"Mmm," she groaned when he bent, his tongue treating her well. "Sark," she whispered, and he backed them into the bedroom.  
  
There wasn't any light but everything was bright and explosive and Sydney felt like there were pyrotechnics all over. When they moved together, joined, one in a bleeding dance, she cried out to the God she didn't worship.  
  
Flesh and dampness and overwhelming, over-stimulating pleasure. Sark's strangled breathing all around her, his hands everywhere, his eyes on hers. His sacred melting poetry in her ear.   
  
Time slows down, speeds up. Relativity.  
  
She shattered.  
  
-  
  
It was near one o'clock when she left. There wasn't the lingering rhythm of post-coital glow for the two of them and both had expected it. While Sark lay in bed, Sydney dressed, ignoring the sterile feel of her clothes as they encased her again.  
  
"Sark," she said, this time in her usual, slightly disapproving voice. He didn't reply, so she forged ahead. "About Lauren."  
  
"I thought we had successfully diverted you from that line of thought."A pause. "You know something."  
  
In the darkness, she heard him shift in the bedclothes, but he said nothing. Outside, there was a dim rumble of people, shoved together, crowded, flowing along, and Sydney longed to be with them. Her raft on the river of people.  
  
"Sark?"  
  
"Your father and Michael Vaughn may be more alike than you think."  
  
Her back was to him. Someone looking through the doorway would have seen Sydney standing, her head slumped just slightly forward. Light from the street highlighted the back of her head and her shining hair. In the bed, Sark lay sprawled on his back, one bare leg peeking out from under the sheet.  
  
It was like a painting, an enigmatic modern painting. The only thing the paint couldn't convey was Sydney's tiny death. Her heart, her soul, wasn't lying tangibly in the middle of the room, but there was a void in its place.  
  
The tone of his voice signaled the end of their conversation. Quietly, Sydney hoarded her purse, her sweater, and walked to the door. This confrontation would soon fade into a translucent yesterday, cracked.   
  
"Sydney."  
  
She turned even though he couldn't see her.  
  
"I hate the Covenant more than you think."  
  
She blended into the crush of people because that was what she was trained to do. Sark's words coursed through her. It seemed as though he was implying that Lauren was awesomely duplicitous, but could it be? And how could she tell Vaughn?  
  
Then again, he could be referring to something entirely different. Haladki? There was no way to ask him, no way to ask Vaughn. Most importantly, though, was Lauren putting them in danger? If she were, would Sark tell her? Did he feel that duty?  
  
Probably not, she decided. It was Sark, after all. And though she had  
just slept with the man, she couldn't romanticize him. There was no romance in Sark, just primal instinct. He was a survivor, lived by the necessities.  
  
Not a minute after she had safely entered her room, someone knocked on the door. Vaughn? Before she answered, she appraised herself in the mirror. Would he be able to detect the blood caresses that Sark had left?  
  
"Where were you?" he asked angrily, his voice hissing, low.  
  
"I went out."  
  
"Lauren and I were worried sick."  
  
"I'm a big girl, Vaughn."  
  
"Sydney, you can't just run off! We didn't know where you'd gone, if you'd been abducted -" He broke off abruptly. Sydney realized this wasn't about tonight.  
  
"I'm fine. There weren't any signs of a struggle."  
  
"There didn't have to be," Vaughn said softly. "I was worried, Sydney."  
  
"I'm sorry. I just... wanted to see Barcelona again."  
  
"At one in the morning?" His voice was kind, and as he studied her face, Sydney prayed he couldn't see Sark's frantic blue burn on her.  
  
"No one said I was rational."  
  
They shared a slender smile.  
  
"Are you ready? For tomorrow?"  
  
"For tonight. Yes."  
  
"Lauren asked me to tell you that she accidentally grabbed the lipstick for your dress. It's in our room."  
  
"That's fine," Sydney said, hoping her grin wasn't stilted. The name sent shivers everywhere and she wondered about Sark's words again. Licking her lips, she prepared to ask Vaughn if he'd seen Lauren acting strangely. She opened her mouth to speak -  
  
"So, goodnight," Vaughn said, backing away.  
  
- and clamped it shut again. "Yes. Goodnight. I'll see you-and Lauren-in the morning."  
  
"Right." A nod, a hooded glance, and he left.  
  
Deep inside the confines of her dark room-her dark mind-Sydney considered her options. She could march up to Sark and demand a straightforward explanation and get her head blown off. She could march up to Vaughn and demand that he scrutinize his wife, watch her every movement, and lose his respect. She could march up to Lauren, shoot her in the face, feel gleeful for a few moments, then rot in federal prison.   
  
Her options were narrowing.  
  
So she called her father.  
  
"Dad," she said urgently when he picked up.  
  
"Sydney, it's nearly two in the morning there," he chided, acting as though she were a child who still needed to be in bed at ten sharp.  
  
"I know. I just... I need to talk."  
  
"Okay." He waited.  
  
"I ran into Sark."  
  
"Where?" Jack questioned, instantly alert. "Did he threaten you?"  
  
"No, no. It was... it was in front of the _Sagrada Familia_."  
  
"You and Sark met in front of a church?" her father asked, and Sydney swore she could have heard mild amusement in his voice.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Did he reveal anything?"  
  
"He said that he was here for the operations manual too."  
  
If she could have seen Jack, he would have nodded his assent. "Yes, I imagined he would be."  
  
"He said something... something to me that I'm kind of...." She trailed off. Worried about? Yes. Wondering about? Yes.  
  
"What, Sydney?"  
  
"He said something about churches and how their sanctity is false. And then he asked me if Lauren and Vaughn were married in a church."  
  
Jack paused for a very long minute. "Do you think that he was implying that their marriage is a sham?"  
  
"I don't know." She swallowed, wondering if she could divulge Sark's other hint to her father. "He said something else."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He said that you-you and Vaughn-you were more alike than I thought."  
  
"Then he's certainly telling you that the marriage is somehow founded on false pretenses." To Sydney's immeasurable relief, her father said nothing about Irina, didn't even pause in his statement. "Does he think that Lauren is manipulating Vaughn?"  
  
"I don't know. I wanted to know what you thought."  
  
"Based on his clues, that's what I assume. Why would he tell you something like this?"  
  
"I honestly don't know."  
  
"Sydney, there's a chance that Sark is trying to get you to turn against Vaughn."  
  
"I know. But... he also said that he hates the Covenant too."  
  
"I would assume so. They did steal his inheritance."  
  
"Do you think that's the only reason?" Sydney asked. Like a child, she pulled her knees up to her chest, sitting in a chair in the most shadowed corner of her room.  
  
"I wouldn't know." Jack sighed deeply. "Just watch out, Sydney. Keep your eye on Lauren. And Sark."  
  
"I always have an eye on Sark," Sydney muttered thoughtlessly.  
  
"I'm... glad you called."  
  
"Thanks, Dad."  
  
"You're welcome. Be safe," he said, his voice just a fraction of a decibel softer than usual.  
  
"I will, Dad."  
  
They didn't say goodbye, ever. Somehow, Sydney thought it was too final, and she suspected Jack felt the same. Goodbye, in this business, meant forever.  
  
Exhausted, she stripped off her pants, her sweater, her shirt, and fell into bed. Dark smoke desire filled her dreams.  
  
-  
  
Go time. Lauren kissed Vaughn on the cheek and wished the two of them good luck. Sydney hoped she wasn't imagining the envious flicker on Lauren's face when she saw Sydney in her party ensemble.  
  
Arms entwined, Sydney and Vaughn stepped into the fete, managing to remain inconspicuous. They shook a few hands and Sydney smiled radiantly at slimy old men she'd rather kick in the balls than dance with. But she endured.  
  
She was having more trouble enduring the feel of Vaughn next to her, so right. His warm, welcoming chest, his scent... they risked routing her. In her mind's eye, she put Vaughn's khaki texture against Sark's silk. She was astonished to find that she preferred the silk sliding along her body.  
  
Two glasses of champagne later, Sydney noticed Sark. Their eyes met across the room and Sydney shivered, recalling their blood dance. The room was pulsing around her to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Every part of her became hypersensitive. Her lips parted and Vaughn encircled her waist.   
  
She turned quickly.  
  
"We should get it over with," he murmured, so close to her ear that the vibrations raced through her. She envisioned Sark's crooked lip so close, so strangely tender. It made her shut her eyes, caught her breath in her lungs, lean into his masculine form.  
  
"Syd?" he asked, even quieter.  
  
"Let's do it," she said, wanting to get out of the room that had Sark in  
it.  
  
They were spies; they could leave a room unobserved. And they did, melting into the walls and re-emerging in a nondescript corridor somewhere under the building. "You get in there," Vaughn said. "I'll cover you here."  
  
Sydney nodded and cocked her gun, prepared. It was another left turn, then a right, and she would be in his office. She took the left cautiously, ready to attack. Nothing.  
  
Even in heels, Sydney had learned to be utterly silent. Poised, a warrior, Sydney twisted around the corner - and sustained a sound smack in the stomach. Blindly, she struck back, and her opponent crashed against the wall. Sydney aimed her gun where she'd heard the sound and looked up, focusing her enemy.  
  
_The churches are hypocritical. They promise sanctuary. Eternity. But often it ends violently._  
  
Lauren Reed.  
  
She was dressed in sleek black, head to toe, her gun black and sickeningly coordinating.  
  
"Lauren?" Sydney breathed.  
  
"Sydney," she said in her bizarre British accent. "Or should I say Julia?"  
  
"What...?" But the question died before she finished it. Sark had been right. Instead of pondering Lauren's immense betrayal, Sydney wondered why Sark had warned her. She had thought that most of what Sark told her in the past, was jejune, but now he had tried to impart imperative information. She'd miscalculated.  
  
"Surprised?" Lauren asked, smug.  
  
"Not really," Sydney replied flippantly. Vaughn - was he coming? Would he know? How long was she going to be in this standoff?  
  
"Ah." Lauren smiled, her eyes the same icy color that had chilled Sydney in their past encounters.  
  
"Who are you working for?" Sydney asked. It was a stock question in such a situation. The CIA would have wanted her to ask.  
  
"I can't tell you that, Sydney." The Covenant, Sydney assumed automatically. Lauren tilted her head. "You know, you seem like a nice person," Lauren told her, a conversational tone overtaking her voice. "I might have liked you."  
  
"Except?"  
  
Now a hard iron edge. "Except my husband is in love with you."  
  
"But you're not in love with him," Sydney answered.  
  
"Michael was a necessity. I don't appreciate being second choice, however."  
  
"Are you going to keep deceiving him?" Sydney asked, leaning forward marginally.  
  
"No. I'm going to kill him," Lauren replied placidly.  
  
A surprise, a noise behind them. They both swiveled, and Sark came out of Felligni's office clutching a thick folder, pointing his gun at them. At Lauren, Sydney amended.  
  
"Hello, Miss Reed," Sark said politely. "Agent Bristow," he added.  
  
Oh, Christ. Where the hell was Vaughn? He had to be suspicious by now."Mr. Sark," Lauren greeted him. From the look on her face, Sydney knew that Lauren hadn't been counting on this either.  
  
"Mr. Sloane will be pleased to know you're here," Sark said, "though he didn't assign you to this mission." He smirked at her trapped look. "Miss Reed, I am not an opponent to be taken lightly."  
  
Sydney's eyes darted between them. There was a connection, she knew it, but - what? A flash in Lauren's eyes, an echoing viciousness in Sark's. Had they slept together? Sydney felt grimy. She had slept with Sark. If Lauren had also, did that mean Sark was playing Sydney too? Stupid question - Sark was playing everyone.  
  
When she refocused her stunned, blurry vision, Sark was studying her critically. She stuck her chin out, still clutching her gun like a lover.  
  
He smirked. _Good girl._  
  
"Mr. Sloane knows I'm here," Lauren finally said.   
  
Sark laughed outright. "You're not a bad operative, Miss Reed, but you're a terrible liar."  
  
Finally, finally, Sydney heard footsteps. Vaughn.  
  
He whipped around the corner, prepared to shoot, to kick - to fight. To die? His eyes flickered from Lauren, to Sydney, to Sark, back around, a carousel.  
  
"Lauren?" he asked at last. His voice seemed as though it might crack like Sydney's glass.  
  
"Hello, Michael," Lauren said.  
  
Sydney could see that he wanted to say something but nothing came.   
  
"How?" he asked at last, his voice remarkably steady, his pistol unwavering. His eyes looked hazy.   
  
Sydney cut her eyes to Sark momentarily. On the contrary, his eyes were brilliantly clear, observing with interest.  
  
Lauren swayed for a second, and Sydney could see that the previous calm in her voice had been bravado. Killing Vaughn wasn't going to be easy for her. Stomach clenching, Sydney wondered if Lauren would settle for killing her.  
  
"You provided me with valuable information. Thank you, Michael," Lauren said, somewhat of a non-sequitor.  
  
Vaughn's lips tightened and Sydney noticed him grasping his gun so tightly his knuckles protruded white. All of his love, his trust, crumpled beneath Lauren's perfidy, crushed under his hand.  
  
"I loved you," Vaughn spat.  
  
Sark stepped in. "I do hate to interrupt this moment, but I should probably deliver Miss Reed to Mr. Sloane. He'll be pleased that you... carried out his orders so well," Sark addressed her, than damnable smirk spreading again.  
  
"Vaughn, call Dixon and Lindsey," Sydney ordered, not taking her eyes away from Lauren. He didn't move, still clamped to his gun and immobile from chagrin. "I can take it from here," Sydney said firmly. "Go."  
  
A last, cold look at Lauren. A final statement. "I gave up everything for you." A pointed glance to Sydney.  
  
He left, turned his back on Lauren, didn't look over his shoulder. Lauren raised her gun, pointing it at Vaughn's retreating form. Quicksilver, Sydney kicked it out of her hand, had her on the floor in mere moments.  
  
Wiping blood from her chin, Lauren remarked, "This makes it easy for you, then."  
  
"Nothing is easy for me." Sydney narrowed her eyes. Sark stood back a slight distance with the curious look still on his face.  
  
It was a time-tested tactic. Lauren had distracted Sydney sufficiently enough. That, combined with Sydney's lack of faith in Lauren's prowess, allowed her to pounce on Sydney. The two engaged in an ugly fight until Lauren caught a break; she reached for the gun.  
  
Death.  
  
Sydney was staring at it.  
  
She knew it in the split second - millisecond, really - as Lauren aimed the gun at her with a malicious expression.  
  
And fell on top of her in a bloody heap.  
  
Reeling, Sydney rolled away from the sanguineous body, stood up to find Sark with the smoking gun.  
  
It would be appropriate to thank him, but she couldn't bring herself to do so.  
  
"Why didn't you just tell me?" She paused, and said, quieter, "Why did you tell me at all?"  
  
"I told you. I hate the Covenant."  
  
"You told me because you hate the Covenant? Because... because you wanted to sabotage them or something?"  
  
No reaction, just those irritating glittering fire eyes.  
  
"I didn't believe you."  
  
"I know," Sark said.  
  
In a ridiculous instant of weakness, Sydney wanted to collapse on the ground and rub her bruises and sob. So f***ed up. Most of all, she hated herself for not seeing it, not connecting the dots. She hated herself for not trusting Sark. Jesus.  
  
Sark must have caught her vulnerability, because he took advantage, backing her against the wall. Exhausted, Sydney hardly put up a fight as Sark guided her over Lauren's prone body and pressed into her.  
  
Instead of shooting her, he kissed her. With tears sliding down her cheeks, Sydney half-cried, half-kissed him. When she couldn't breathe, she broke away and wiped her face.  
  
"You killed Lauren," Sydney said to him, the only thing she could think to say. "And Francie," she added, crying in earnest. Her inner voice shrieked at her to _get it together!_, but she was on a jag now. It had been so, so long since she'd indulged in an all-out, wailing cry, and if it happened in the middle of an op with an internationally wanted, armed terrorist beside her, so be it.  
  
Sark just stood and stared, the folder bound underneath his arm.  
  
How true, in this spy world, was the theory of relativity. Everything was relative. Rather than kicking the everloving life out of Sark, Sydney was all but crying on his shoulder. Lauren, dead, at her feet. Vaughn, defeated, walking away, and she didn't f****** care.  
  
What was it that her mother hated about _Huckleberry Finn_? In the end, when Tom came, Huck abandoned all the morality that he'd so carefully gained during the course of the novel. Was Sydney doing the same? Discarding her years of training, feeling so intensely?  
  
It begged the question - was it science, nature, that had her breaking down, or was it fragility?  
  
And did it matter?  
  
Sydney took the handkerchief that Sark offered.  
  
"Keep it," he told her dryly when she moved to return it. Then he leaned in swiftly and said, "It doesn't have to be easy. _Nous courons toujours_, Sydney." For just a moment, his winter-frost language was gone. It seemed heated and spontaneous.  
  
Just as quickly, he was back to Mr. Sark.   
  
"Goodbye, Agent Bristow."  
  
Goodbye meant forever.   
  
"Not goodbye, Sark."  
  
"No?"  
  
Sydney laughed abruptly at the absurdity of it all, let the laugh roll right onto Lauren's cooling body.  
  
"No."  
  
And she turned and left, taking the back way out.   
  
-  
  
Vaughn was waiting in their car, staring straight out the windshield, his jaw clenched. His eyes whisked over her.  
  
"Blood," he said dimly.  
  
"Sark..." Sydney said.  
  
"She's dead?"  
  
"Yeah." Sydney looked to her crimson hands. "Vaughn..."  
  
"Don't, Syd. Just... please."  
  
"Sure."   
  
All of their love and their remorse and their venom stretched long and lean between them.  
  
"Did you know?" he asked.  
  
"Vaughn, if I had known, I would have told the CIA," she said softly.  
  
"Right." He looked over at her. "Nothing's ever going to be the same."  
  
"That started a long time ago." Maybe there never was a _same_.  
  
Sydney fastened her seatbelt and Vaughn drove them away.  
  
-  
  
They asked Vaughn to take a couple of weeks off - after they performed various interrogation techniques, of course. Cleared of treason charges, Vaughn was free to go home and wallow. Weiss told him not to run off to Vegas and get hitched, but the joke fell horrifically flat.  
  
On the first night of his vacation, Sydney sat outside his apartment in her car for half an hour, debating visiting him. She went home and finished off a quart of ice cream and fell asleep on the couch.  
  
After that, she tried hard not to think of him. Because no matter how hard they tried, he was right - nothing would ever be the same. She couldn't bear the thought of her rock eroding away. So she didn't think of it. She'd always liked simple solutions to complicated problems.  
  
One night it rained, a hard, driving rain that carved temporary rivers and flooded storm drains and bounced back up from the ground. She spent an hour at her window, watching it spatter, painting its Los Angeles canvas. In her reverie, she nearly missed the doorbell.  
  
It was a courier, holding a package.  
  
"Sydney Bristow?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"For you." The young boy smiled and Sydney dismissed him with a nod. Inside her apartment, she wished she had an explosives detector. There was, of course, no return address.  
  
From weighing it in her hands, Sydney guessed there was paper inside the brown packaging. Cautious, she untied the plain brown string.  
  
The coarse wrapping exposed a file folder. Relatively thick, but otherwise common, unnoticeable.  
  
It was the operations manual she had been sent to recover in Barcelona.  
  
She knew whom it was from.  
  
With the rain as her soundtrack, Sydney spread the folder on the table, poking through its contents. Whatever information it had contained about Sark had been removed and Sydney grinned in spite of herself. It faded when she hit a single piece of paper, a picture clipped to it. Lauren's information.  
  
Vaughn's information was printed at the bottom of the sheet.  
  
Behind it was their marriage certificate.  
  
Sydney shut the folder immediately.  
  
Vaughn answered the door in sweatpants, looked surprised to see her.   
  
Wordlessly, she thrust the folder at him.  
  
"What's this?" he asked.  
  
"Read it," Sydney replied.  
  
Shoulder against the doorjamb, Vaughn flipped through the folder, his face losing color.  
  
He looked at her.  
  
"Do you want to come in?" he asked quietly.  
  
Past his shoulder, she could hear, smell, practically taste the warmth of his apartment. She thought, momentarily, of Sark. Knew she should go in.   
  
But she shook her head and backed away.  
  
It wasn't the same.  
  
Subtext.  
  
Relativity.  



End file.
